I’m just her bodyguard.
“Thank you,” she says, but her breath is heavy like I’m one second from taking her right here. I was inside her last night. And the night before that. And in a few hours, I’ll be deep between her legs again.
That’s also where I want to be.
She’s about to return to the wet floorboards.
“Wait.” I quickly roll a hairband off my wrist. My hair doesn’t reach my shoulders, but it’s just long enough that I can put it in a bun.
Her smile widens when she realizes what I’m doing. Our eyes never detour, not even as I start gathering her hair in my hands. It’s messy.
Not even close to perfect.
But I’m able to tie her hair up into a knot at the top of her head. When I’m finished, her gloved hand hovers above her bun, and she scans the room for a mirror. None.
Her eyes hit mine. “How do I look?” she asks.
Beautiful.
But I feel the hot gazes of Charlie and Farrow. They’re quiet, which means they’re listening.
Fuck it.
“Beautiful,” I tell her.
Surprise parts her lips, but her smile reaches her eyes. “Tom called you an honorary Cobalt this morning on the phone,” she says. I didn’t know that.
Charlie overhears and he calls out to us. “Until you two stop fake dating.” His yellow-green eyes pierce me. “Then you turn back into a pumpkin.”
We hold each other’s gaze.
He’s calling me the Cinderella in all of this.
And maybe he’s right.
I am coming from nothing suddenly being welcomed into a world that I don’t belong in. An uncomfortable tension winds between Jane and me. Security is holding the “end” of the fake dating op over our heads. I hate that it could come sooner than Halloween. I hate that I can’t do shit about that.
Mostly, I hate when we have to breakup, I won’t be able to call her beautiful. Not out loud. It’ll stay in my head. Like it always has before.
26
THATCHER MORETTI
Dear Jane,
I hope you’re doing well. I realize now that my earlier intentions to set you up with a respectable man, while well-meaning, were misplaced since you have already found yourself a boyfriend. I’d love to meet him and have the chance to speak to you in person. Let me know if you’d be free for an afternoon tea this weekend.
Love,
Grandmother Calloway
That email still rips through my head. Jane showed it to me yesterday and stated plainly, “I have to put this whole ordeal to bed. And the only way to do that is to meet with my grandmother and tell her what’s on my mind.” I don’t blame her. Grandmother Calloway has been too quiet, too silent, and she’s always worse when she’s lurking in the fucking shadows.
So Jane accepted the invitation.
And now we’re sitting on a leather couch in the infamous Avondale Club. Cigar smoke wafts in the poorly lit parlor, and cocktail tables, couches and chairs are all filled with blue-blooded aristocrats.
Jane tucks her pastel-sequined purse closer to her stomach. We sit side-by-side but turned into each other. Knees knocking. Legs brushing. My hand feels glued to the inside of her thigh, like that’s where it was always meant to be.
Her eyes flit around the room before settling on me. “She’s late.”
I go to touch my mic, thinking I can radio to see her grandmother’s whereabouts, but my fingers brush the fabric of my collar. No wire.
No mic.
No comms.
I’m off-duty. Here as Jane’s boyfriend only.
I don’t fucking hate it. But I do wish I at least had my taser. Not that I’d tase her grandmother. I’d tase one of these pricks that keep leering at her from across the room. Two targets are at a high-top table by the window, puffing on cigars, and eyeing her up and down like they’re etching her body into their memories.
That, I hate.
I wrap an arm around Jane’s waist, trying to ease her tension in a different way. “I can go ask Banks if he has any word on her ETA.”
My brother sits with Akara on the first lounge, raised a couple steps above the parlor and separated by a mahogany half-wall.
The Avondale Club has been a topic among security since I first joined. Only a handful of the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts attend. Even less do so regularly. Cell phones aren’t allowed beyond the doors, and the country club’s own security is so tight that our guys aren’t even permitted past the first lounge.
But from that vantage, you can still clearly see the main parlor and do your job. Honest, most of the guys on the team just want to see the inside. To say they’ve been here. A place only the most affluent will ever gather.
For the most part, being stuck at the club all day on duty is considered dull work. And after the second time a bodyguard has to go, they’ll start complaining real fucking fast.
I’ve always thought the longer I worked in security, one day I’d probably make it here.
I just never thought it would be as a boyfriend. Fake boyfriend.
Not a bodyguard.
Jane shakes her head. “No, I’d rather you stay here,” she says and leans closer into me. “This place gives me the chills. My dad does business here sometimes, and growing up, when he’d come home after, he was always a little different.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Her gaze sinks into me. “My dad says he has many faces and the one he puts on for this place is the coldest of them all.”
Christ.
It reminds me.
This is her first time here, too.
“We’re not staying long,” I tell her. Talk to her grandmother. Get out. That’s the op. No straying.
“Yes,” she agrees. “No longer than we need to. And if my tardy grandmother would so kindly show up, we could move this along even quicker.”
I slide the sleeve of my sports coat back and check my watch. Who the fuck is late to their own apology tour? It’s horseshit.
Jane’s knees start to bounce.
Fuck.
I make the call. “Five minutes and we’re leaving.”
Relief lowers her shoulder. “Oui.”
She rests her palm on the inside of my thigh and scoots even nearer.
Soft chatter from guests drowns our own conversations. Each member of the club looks like they could be from the same Yale Secret Society.
I do a fine job at blending. I’ve been in even fancier black tie events for work.
Servers walk around the room, carrying silver trays with flutes of champagne. Jane motions for one. The server bends down for her to take a glass.
She doesn’t reach. “Can we get two beers?”
He blinks. “This is Dom Pérignon.”
“I’m aware,” she says. “But I’m more of a beer drinker. Two pints of Guinness perhaps?”
The server nods and leaves quickly.
Jane knows my favorite beer. That simple fact sends blood rushing south. I return my hand to her thigh. Like a fucking magnet. She shifts to look at me head-on, and my palm slides a little higher up her baby-blue dress pants. I stop before it becomes inappropriate.
“Guinness,” I say first.
She smiles. “The best kind of kisses.”
Fuck. My free hand rises to the back of her head, prepared to remind her what those kind of kisses feel like. I’d do more if we weren’t in public. She’d be on the table. Legs open. Ready for my tongue. Then my cock.
I tell her, “Also the best kind of sex.”
Flush runs up her neck and shallow breath leaves her lips. “Have we had Guinness sex yet?”
I shake my head.
“We should rectify that. Most surely,” she says and pats my chest like she doesn’t know where else to put her hands. Her eyes drop to my crotch. I think she wants to put them there. She’s sexy as all hell and right now, I get to call her my girlfriend. Fake girlfriend, but still, it’s a good feeling.
I open my mouth to reply, but movement on my four catches my e
ye.
We both look up as her cousin approaches, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. A strict code violation for the club, but Sullivan Meadows was able to skate on by.
According to the owner, she’s the first Olympic gold medalist to step foot on the premises.
“Just a heads up—there are no cupcakes or donuts here,” Sulli says, but she carries a stack of pastries on a small plate. “Fucking waste of a good tea party.”
She slumps down on the couch beside Jane.
“Thank you for coming,” Jane says into a smile and squeezes her side.
“Fuck yeah, had to check this place out.” Sulli pops a pastry in her mouth. “Still don’t get it. It’s kinda dark in here.” She cranes her neck back to the first lounge where Akara and my brother chill out. On duty and not allowed down to this part of the parlor.
“Un-fucking-fair,” Sulli curses.
I agree with her on that one.
Jane nods. “This would have been my last choice of venue, but I didn’t want to argue with Grandmother.”
Like she was summoned out of thin fucking air, her grandmother exits from two double doors that leads to a private dining area.
Gray hair spooled into a bun and pearls on her bony neck, she meanders over with a tight smile. Before anyone can say anything, she spots Sulli’s attire. Her collarbones jut out like she sucked on helium. “Oh Sullivan, dear, did you not get the email about the dress code?”
“Got it, but I asked my dad and he told me it was fucking optional.” Sulli smiles into her next bite of pastry. In reality, her dad told her to wear what she wanted and blame it on him.
Her grandmother sighs. “Of course he did.” She swings her head to me. Jane and I rise to our feet, and I hold out my hand for her grandmother to shake.
She does. “Thatcher, so lovely to finally meet my granddaughter’s boyfriend.” She appraises me in quick once-over. “It’s nice that you could follow the dress code…considering.”
She leaves that word considering hanging in the air like a dead note.
Jane’s eyes bug. “Considering what , Grandmother?”
I shake my head. I don’t want to cause friction right now. Jane’s here to grab an apology and a promise from her grandmother. That’s it. Anything else is extraneous.
We don’t need to be on good terms.
We don’t need to be on any terms.
Grandmother Calloway snatches a flute of champagne off a server’s tray. “Jane, dear, he’s not from here,” she says. “It’s naïve to think everyone is aware of the customs of high society. That’s all.” Her eyes ping to a server carrying our two beers. “Those aren’t for us.” She waves him off with a hand.
Jane lets out an annoyed breath.
“You invited us to tea, ma’am,” I remind her grandmother. No straying . We’re in and out.
She purses her lips. “It’s polite to chat first.”
“Respectfully, ma’am, it’s also polite not to be fifteen minutes late,” I refute.
Her shoulders lock.
Sulli mumbles an uh-oh under her breath and sinks down to the leather couch, leaving the rest of us standing.
“You were late,” Jane says like she’s gearing up for battle by my side. “And you haven’t apologized for that either.”
Her grandmother narrows her eyes at Jane. They suddenly seem to soften. “You are so much like your mother.”
“I’m not her,” Jane says with a shake of her head. “If I were, I wouldn’t be standing here. You would have received one scathing voicemail and then never hear from me for at least a year. And I’ve contemplated doing that, but instead, I’d truly love to sit down and speak with you.”
“Now,” I add. “She’s busy, ma’am.”
“Very busy.” Jane smiles. “I have many more places to be.” That aren’t in a parlor with men three times her age staring at her like she’s fucking meat. Preferably where I also have a taser.
And a gun.
And my comms.
Grandmother Calloway inhales sharply. “I only reserved a table for you and your new boyfriend and myself. I’d hoped we could get some private time to address our issues.”
“Oh, fuck, no problem,” Sulli says, dropping crumbs into her shirt. Jane and her share a smile. “I can just sit right here and eat some more of these non-cupcakes and non-donuts.” She looks to Akara like she might go hang with him and Banks.
Grandmother Calloway touches Sulli’s shoulder. “Another time, dear. Tell your mother to call. I haven’t spoken with her in a while.”
“I’ll pass it along,” Sulli says.
Grandmother Calloway looks from Jane to me. “Follow me.”
* * *
Ten minutes. I clocked it. From the minute we sat down at the private table to the minute we stood up to leave. And all ten minutes felt like a brutal underhanded rag on me.
“I’m so sorry,” Jane apologizes for the tenth time. She sits on the rung of a vintage wooden ladder. We’ve slipped into a small wine closet before we head back to the parlor. Shelves and racks of wine reaching at least ten feet high.
I cross my arms over my chest. My coat tight on my muscles. “Don’t be sorry, honey.”
She stares at me a second longer.
I continue, “It wasn’t that bad.”
Her eyes enlarge. “She brought out escargot just to see if you knew how to eat it. And don’t get me started on quizzing you about your education.”
Her grandmother asked if I went to Wharton.
When I said no she started listing a bunch of Ivy Leagues and asking about those.
It took a while before Jane could cut in and tell her what needed to be said. That she shouldn’t have done something that involved Jane’s personal life without Jane’s permission. That if anything like this happens to her siblings or cousins, there will be hell to pay.
Jane was firm.
Resolute.
And she even got a half-hearted I’m sorry from her grandmother. I’d take all the fucking underhanded comments about where I’m from and how I don’t fit into high society just to see and hear all of that over again.
But I also understand Jane feels like she didn’t protect me in the process. I’m really the last person that needs shields or handrails. Grandmother Calloway can throw underhanded comments my way, all day long. As long as she’s not pulling shit on Jane, I’m fine.
That’s all there is to it.
My eyes sink into Jane’s. “I can handle your grandmother.” I was polite. I didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t wish for my taser but only once . And that was in my head, so no fault there. “And,” I continue. “I’m glad you did this. She needed to hear all of that shit as much as I think you needed to say it to her.”
She nods. “I think so, too.”
I hold out a hand. She stares at my opened palm and her lips upturn. “Merci.” She takes my hand and rises off the ladder to her feet.
“So we’re in agreement,” she says into a stronger breath. “No regrets.”
“None here.”
She smiles brighter and adjusts her purse on her hip. “The best part is that she’s already disinvited to Christmas, so I won’t have to see her for a good while.”
“Whose call was that?”
“My mom’s,” she says into a wider grin. “But that decision was actually made back during Greece. For what she said to Maximoff and Farrow.”
Good. I think most of the family will be happier with a Grandmother Calloway free zone for the foreseeable future. It won’t change anything with security. We’ll still keep tabs on her in case she decides to go rogue again.
Jane and I shift nearer. I slide my hand along the small of her back, and her breath shallows as she tucks hers into my back pocket. We thread together.
This close in the small closet, I can smell her shampoo. Spring. Flowers.
It’s intoxicating.
“We are just two people in a wine closet with zero regrets,” Jane whispers. We stare at one another for a
silent moment. Fuck it. I lean down and kiss her. Lips swelling beneath mine. She stands on her tiptoes, and then I pick her up to lessen the strain on both of us. More eyelevel. Lips lined up.
I suck on the bottom of hers.
Her breath catches in her throat, and her fingers tighten in my hair. But it’s her thighs that squeeze around me that causes my cock to beg for her.
“Thatcher,” she breathes my name in my ear like honey dripping down flesh.
I press my mouth to her neck. She moans a little.
Christ.
I pull back just to meet her eyes. I have to be direct. “I’m going to set you down,” I tell her. “Because if we keep kissing, I’m going to put my cock in you.”
Flush dots her cheeks. “That sounds pleasant…”
“Jane.”
“I meant to say, pleasant and something we can do later at our scheduled hour.” She smiles and pats my chest. “You may set me down.” Our scheduled hour: tonight . Couldn’t come fast enough.
It takes all my energy to drop her to her feet. But I’m aware that we tend to go overboard when we start making out like this. Too insatiable. Too hungry for each other’s bodies.
Her ballet flats hit the floor and she lets out a deeper breath. I wait for her to adjust her clothes. She pulls up her pants that slipped below her love handles.
When she meets my eyes, I ask, “Good to go?”
“Oui.”
I’m still careful when I open the door. I crack it first, just out of precaution.
Two voices filter in. Clear like they’re standing right outside. It doesn’t much matter if they see us. The public thinks we’re dating. I’m about to open it wider, but I stop when I hear her name.
“Jane Cobalt is here,” the woman says. Her voice is gravel like she’s been smoking too many cigars.
“I saw,” another woman says. “Can’t believe she’s narrating romance books when she went to Princeton for math. Girl is wasting her degree.”
“Seriously, why did she even go to school?” The voices drift off until they’re no longer audible.
I turn around to see Jane rolling her eyes.
“You okay?” I ask.
Tangled Like Us Page 25
